Voodoo
by pfloogs72
Summary: A Home Sweet Home entry. Sookie Stackhouse is a waitress in a Kansas City steakhouse, drawn to the gritty side of town by an authenic jazz club.


**Entry for Home Sweet Home Contest**

**Title: Voodoo**

**Characters: Sookie, Eric, Lafayette, Amelia, and others**

**Word count: 4,607**

**Pen name: pfloogs72**

**Beta: Miss Construed **

**Disclaimer: It's all Charlaine Harris!**

Saturday night; the most anticipated few hours of my week as of late. Although, I suppose technically, I should say Sunday morning.

It was nearly midnight, and the crowd of regulars at the Majestic Steakhouse had finally headed home or onto one of the jazz clubs that would be open for a couple hours longer. They ventured downtown for legendary steaks in a restaurant that captured the heyday of Kansas City and its stockyards, but stayed for drinks and the jazz. I clipped through my closing tasks, clearing the glasses and bottles, wiping down tables, refilling the condiment bottles and straightening the menus. Normally I was in no rush to leave, I loved the old restaurant; after seven years the tiled floors, leather banquettes and low lighting felt like a second home to me. Plus, I didn't have the liveliest of social calendars, aside from my nightly date with Tina, my cat.

But on Saturday nights something extraordinary happened; something witnessed by only a lucky roomful of people in the city.

"You comin' tonight, Sook?" I glanced up to see my friend had finished packing away his trumpet. Lafayette was a regular fixture at the Majestic. He had a big personality that shone through when he was playing.

"Wouldn't miss it," I smiled. "But go ahead without me. I've got a little more work to do."

Lafayette glared at me like a mother hen. "18th and Vine is no place for a girl like you to be by herself."

I smiled reassuringly. "I'm not going by myself."

"What?"

I tried not to be offended by the shocked look on his face. "Would it be so surprising if I had a date?" I asked.

"You bet your sweet ass it would. Wasn't your last proper date when Clinton was in office?"

I leveled a look at him. "I dated Bill for two years during the Bush administration."

Lafayette raised his eyebrows and shrugged with his palms up. "I rest my case."

I sighed and shook my head resignedly.

"So, who's the hot date?"

I grinned. "Amelia."

Lafayette winced with disgust. "Well shit. That's no date."

"What's no date?" asked Amelia, passing by with a full tray of empties. The slender pixie-haired waitress radiated health. She'd been one of my closest friends since she began working at the Majestic four years earlier.

"You." There was no love lost between the two.

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever you're talking about I'm ignoring." She continued on to the kitchen without slowing down.

Lafayette shot me a look. "I can't believe you're letting that witch in on the city's best kept secret."

"Lafayette, she's one of my best friends."

He pulled his coat on and spun a scarf around his neck. "Humph. Well, I supposed it's better than watching you sit there by yourself each week."

"I never sit by myself, Lafayette. I always talk to the people around me."

Ignoring my rebuttal, he picked up his case. "I'll see you there soon."

I turned back to wrap up my tasks and help Amelia finish hers so we could leave soon. I was getting anxious.

After what seemed to be an eternity, we were calling goodbye to our manager Sam, and pushing into the cold night air. The aroma of roasting coffee beans from the nearby roasterie filled my nose with the slightly bitter but comforting scent that I'd come to associate with downtown. We ran down the empty sidewalk, past brick buildings that had seen busier days to my car in an attempt to evade the chill that cut through our coats.

As soon as my old car reluctantly sputtered to life, I cranked the heater although it blasted cold air until the engine warmed up.

"So, what's this place all about?" Amelia chattered, a cloud of vapor escaping her mouth.

I pulled my arms around me for warmth until the air from the vents began to warm up.

"I'm warning you it's not much to look at – on the inside or the out, but you'll be hooked once you've experienced what happens inside."

"But it's just jazz, right? I don't know why you're so obsessed with this place. We get plenty of that at work."

I wasn't some big jazz freak – far from it. But I did have a growing appreciation for the musical form. Kansas City has some serious jazz roots though, and the hot bed of Kansas City jazz was at 18th and Vine which was lined with clubs clustered around the newly built Jazz Museum. A mere couple of blocks from 18th and Vine, on a street that was hidden from the shiny new clubs that were carefully designed to provide a shiny "jazz experience", was where the most authentic jazz in the city could be found. Few people knew about it, and even fewer came, probably deterred from venturing so far from their comfort zone. Settled on a uninviting block lined with run-down storefronts and boarded-over windows was a non-descript cinderblock box of a building that looked deserted save for the red neon sign of a treble clef that cut through the darkness on Saturday nights after midnight. The neon sign indicated that the Saturday night session was on.

The muffled beat of a drum and the peal of a trumpet were audible in the otherwise utterly silent winter night the moment we opened the car doors, and grew louder as did the electric hiss of the neon as we picked our way over the crumbled sidewalk to the front door.

"You'll see what I mean soon enough. Musicians come here when they finish their paying gigs and jam until the sun comes up. It's like magic."

"Sounds exhausting."

I shrugged. "Eh, maybe it won't be your cup of tea. I think it's one of the coolest things I've experienced in KC."

We were nearly to the door when it swung open, releasing a blast of heat that carried with it the reek of beer, smoke and the unleashed rhythm of the assembled musicians within.

"Ah, Blondie's back," said the gravely voice of the elderly gentleman sitting sentry on a metal stool inside the door. A broad smile lined with a few teeth short of a full set welcomed me as they always did. The curly white sprouts of a sparse moustache stood out against his dark skin. He squinted a bit through eyes clouded with cataracts when he caught sight of Amelia. "I see you brought a pretty friend too."

"Mr. Gates, this is my friend, Amelia. You're looking dapper as always." He was dressed in his customary plaid coat and tie, which I could safely assume were older than me.

"Gotta look sharp, being Saturday night, after all." He winked and tipped his fedora with a gnarled hand. "You know the drill. Donations are gladly accepted."

A battle worn Tupperware bowl sat on the table next to Mr. Gates. I stuffed a crumpled bill through the slit that was crudely cut in the lid to cover admittance - or as they called it "a donation"- to cover Amelia and me.

Amelia gave the place a cursory glance and looked back at me with a face full of skepticism. "Jeez, this place gives an entirely new meaning to the term hole in the wall."

I glanced around and saw it through her eyes. To call it spartan was charitable. A low stage about a foot high was the focus of the room, and ate up about a third of the floor space. Five long folding tables bare of candles, tablecloths or any other frills filled the rest of the room and were surrounded by a jumbled mess of metal folding chairs. The linoleum floor had worn through in spots to tile that had been laid decades ago. It was a blessing that we weren't seeing the place with the lights on; Amelia would have undoubtedly fled if she could see the grime that coated every surface. It was part of the whole experience, but Amelia would surely see nothing but a biohazard.

The only thing that mattered to the people gathered here was what was happening on stage and what had happened on that stage for the better part of seventy years. I pointed to the back wall. Amelia stepped a little closer to inspect the hundreds of framed photos massed like a jigsaw puzzle of legendary musicians who had graced the humble stage and rattled the roof off the building.

"Count Basie?" she asked. I smiled and nodded.

"Charlie Parker?"

"Yep." I grinned. "Pretty cool, huh?"

She nodded with a downturned smile, potentially impressed but still not wholly convinced.

"Want something to drink?" I practically shouted over the wail of Lafayette's trumpet. We were passing a little folding table that served as the bar.

"Vodka tonic," she smiled, until I shook my hand with an erasing motion.

"I should rephrase that. Want a can of Natty Light?"

I ignored her look of disgust and fished two cans from an icy cooler and left another "donation" in a repurposed coffee can on the table. We squeezed through the choke of the audience to a far table that still had a few empty spots, and I finally had the chance to take in the musicians on stage.

Lafayette, of course, was on the trumpet; a middle-aged man named Maxwell Lee was behind the drums in his ever-present suit. A young man named Andre who looked no older than sixteen, although looks can be deceiving, was on the alto sax, and at the microphone was Cleo Babbit, a woman as large as her voice and with a personality to match. She was a big deal on the jazz club scene and the queen of this ramshackle after hours joint. When on stage she commanded the attention of the audience, and more often than not steered the direction of the musicians through the evening.

In a shadowy corner of the stage, Quinn, a bald tower of muscle slapped the strings of an upright bass. Disappointment at the sight of him tugged at my chest; I'd been hoping to see a different bassist, but the night was still young – he still could show.

"So, this is what the hype's all about." Amelia couldn't have been less enthusiastic. "I guess it's cool, but I'm not feeling the "magic" you've gushed about." She shrugged. "Maybe I don't appreciate it since I never studied music."

I shrugged back. To each their own. I suppose I was predisposed to like this since I'd studied vocal performance for years. When my Gran had fallen ill I'd given up my studies to take care of her and work to help with the finances. After she'd died I'd just never gone back. At the conservatory I was rather uncomfortable with jazz; it was loose and improvisational and I felt more at ease with structured musical forms. I found myself singing more jazz influenced riffs in the privacy of my car these days, but I'd never have the nerve to get up on stage and perform.

One crazy night a year before, I'd gone out and had a couple of gin and tonics too many and Lafayette had dragged me up on stage. I'd belted out a couple of songs, but that was a one-time deal. I'd vowed to never do that again; my days of singing for an audience were over.

The metallic scrape of a folding chair being pulled aside was followed by a massive padded gig bag entering my field of vision. My nerves jangled and I held my breath, hoping it was the person who had become the object of my fascination months ago. I didn't allow myself a peek, instead I kept my eyes trained on the stage.

"Hey, Sookie."

I turned and smiled as though I hadn't sensed his presence. As though I hadn't been hoping it was him. "Oh, hey Eric."

I thought I'd pulled off perfect nonchalance until I glimpsed the look on Amelia's face. It was subtle, but the slightly raised eyebrow and the small knowing smile said it all. I turned back to Eric.

"You been here long?" he asked and began to unzip the bag

"Nah. Just ten minutes or so." I knew I had to introduce Amelia although I was hesitant to do so. "Eric, this is my friend Amelia. Eric plays the bass."

Amelia smiled a little disingenuously. "Oh, I see. Nice to meet you, Eric."

"Good to meet you." He looked back at me. "Of course, I only play when I can chase Quinn off the stage. Speaking of…" Eric nodded to the stage.

"Go, go." I waved. "You're not here to talk to me." I only wished he were.

With a practiced move, he bundled the soft bag and stuffed it into the chair with his coat.

"See ya." He grasped the base with two hands and was gone.

I watched his blond head bob as he threaded his way through the chairs then looked back to Amelia who I'd realized had never taken her eyes off me. Her smile was still in place.

"What?" I asked as though I didn't know what was coming.

"It's like magic," she taunted me in an annoying voice and rolled her eyes. "You're such a liar." Her face split into a grin and she cackled. "I can't believe you've been holding out on me."

I laughed back knowing there was no way around it. "Shut up, Amelia. I don't need to take your flack."

"He _is_ gorgeous," she turned back to look at the stage.

I sighed. "I know."

Eric had swapped out spots with Quinn, and had already jumped into the fray. He was gorgeous, there was no denying that. At over six feet, with a head of shoulder length blond hair, stormy blue eyes and an easy smile, he could make anybody's heart skip a beat. Watching him play the bass was what had gotten me though.

He worked the instrument with nimble fingers, grasping the neck with his left hand, plucking and occasionally slapping the strings with his right. Where Quinn played to the crowd, Eric was entirely focused on the bass and on his fellow musicians. He leaned into the instrument, reaching across its belly to elicit the deep beat that pulsed through each song. The bass had been worn to a warm patina; the upper bout was lighter from years of Eric's hand brushing against it, resting on it. I'd realized months ago that I was irrationally jealous of that bass.

After a couple of songs, the musicians hit a sweet spot – the energy rolled off the stage in waves through the music and everybody in the room seemed to be soaking it up. The musicians each took a solo turn, then Cleo resumed her position as queen of the stage and unleashed a riff of scat that seemed to shake the building to its very foundation. She was as caught up in the moment as anybody in the place, and took one step too many toward the edge of the stage and toppled over into a crashing heap amongst the chairs in the front row.

The music instantly faded out as the guys realized what had happened and a collective gasp rippled through the crowd. A few quick thinking individuals pulled aside chairs to reach the mountain of a woman and righted her.

Cleo waved her hands to the sides to indicate she was okay and then daintily fluffed up the curls of her wig and adjusted her elaborately beaded dress.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." She raised her chin in a dignified manner and tried to stand up, determined to return to the stage, but yelped in pain and sank back heavily in the chair. "It seems my ankle doesn't want me to sing anymore tonight."

One of the regulars stepped forward and insisted on taking Cleo to the hospital to have her ankle checked. She reluctantly agreed it was a good idea.

"Carry on fine people," she waved to the crowd as though she were on a parade float as two strapping men hoisted her up and assisted her substantial hobble to the door. "The show must go on!" The entire crowd applauded her until the door slammed shut, then the attention turned back to the stage.

Lafayette had commandeered the microphone and his eyes were gleaming. He loved in the spotlight, he fed on it, and already he was proving to be an excellent emcee.

"Well, seems like we need to find somebody to take Cleo's spot up here on vocals. Anybody out there want to get up?"

A low chatter filled the room and people craned their necks to see if any volunteers were popping up.

"No? Alright, alright. Well, if we have no willing volunteers, looks like we need to conscript somebody into service." Lafayette shaded his eyes from the glare of the spotlight and searched the room until he found me. "Sookie Stackhouse! Get your sweet ass up here."

I shook my head no, but a roar went up from the crowd and unknown arms and hands were pushing me from my seat, propelling me to the stage. Behind me I could hear Amelia's trademark wolf whistle and a few whoops.

"Here she comes, the lovely Sookie Stackhouse. It's your lucky night people. The girl can sing."

Another cheer went up through the crowd and I blushed when I took the stage. Eric gave me an encouraging smile and I returned it weakly. I started to feel a little dizzy but took some deep breaths and shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

"Okay people. I know you're not here to listen to me talk, so let's get to it." He turned and whispered something to Maxwell and Andre. The familiar intro issued from the two instruments and my palms began to sweat. Eric quickly recognized the song and jumped in, laying down a steady beat which for the first time did nothing but agitate me. "We'll keep it nice and easy for Sookie's debut with a little something from the Cole Porter songbook."

My cheeks burned at the thought of singing this song in front of Eric.

"This song goes out to two friends of mine here tonight. You know who you are."

With a wink at me, Lafayette blasted out a few notes on the trumpet. My head reeled and my heart raced. I couldn't believe Lafayette was doing this to me. The only saving grace of the moment was that the lights trained on the stage prevented me from seeing the audience. Unfortunately I could still see Eric in my peripheral vision. The blood rushing through my head was so loud it drowned out the music momentarily. As though I was being pulled to the surface of a pool of the water, the sound of the music rushed back to my ears seemingly louder than before. The time for my intro came and went. I shook it off like a pitcher does a signal, and tried to recover some sense of stage cool by looking down and tapping my hands against my thighs to the beat of the drum – doing my best to ignore the deep tones issuing from the bass. I considered bolting from the stage, but I didn't want to be the laughing stock of the place.

I ran through the lyrics in my head with mounting anxiety. When it was time again for me to lead in I started with a shaky voice that I barely recognized as my own. Thankfully my years of training kicked in, and I put my brain on autopilot for the first few lines. Rather than think about the lyrics, I focused on the energy of the crowd. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. Perhaps they liked the change of pace; enjoyed hearing an old standard. Maybe they were anxious to see if I'd fall to pieces. I was determined to keep it together to the end of the song.

I couldn't help myself from over thinking the next lyrics. My stomach knotted as I sang them and I clenched my fists my sides. My fingernails were digging little half moons into my palms

_You do something to me, something that simply mystifies me…_

I couldn't believe Lafayette, my supposed friend, was mortifying me by making me sing this in front of Eric.

_Tell me, why should it be, you have the power to hypnotize me?_

I thought I'd been so discreet, that my crush had slipped under Lafayette's radar. After all, he'd never even teased me about Eric.

_Let me live 'neath your spell, do do that voodoo that you do so well._

The steady thrum of the bass seemed to reverberate through my bones. Oh God. Was I so obvious that Eric had noticed too?

_For you do something to me that nobody else could do!_

I managed to get through the rest of the song by focusing on a point in the room and imagining I was back in school. When the song ended I shot Lafayette a withering look. He returned one of confused bewilderment, and I shoved the mike into his hand.

"I'm out of here."

Lafayette's mouth gaped open but I turned on my heel and pushed through the crowd. I couldn't accept their congratulations; there was nothing enjoyable about that experience to bask in. I had to get out of there, and I doubted I'd ever be back.

Amelia's mouth was running a mile a minute when I got back to our table, gushing about my performance. My coat jumped into my arms with a yank and I dug under the table to retrieve my purse from the nasty floor. Amelia started to gather her things too but I didn't wait for her.

"Give it up for Sookie Stackhouse," Lafayette spoke from the stage. A fresh round of applause, whistles and catcalls rose from the room. I made my way to the door. "Hopefully we haven't heard the last of Sookie, maybe she'll find her way back to the stage tonight."

His voice diminished as I got closer to the front door. Mr. Gates smiled and held the door open for me. "Nice pipes, Blondie."

I was too upset to give him more than a fleeting, forced smile. The bracing cold was a welcome sensation, shocking the heat that had built up in my body over the last couple of hours out of my system. I drew in a few stinging deep breaths and watched the white curls dissipate into the thin air with every exhalation.

My toes kicked at the broken sidewalk and irritation rose in me with every further moment that I waited for Amelia. The door swung open.

I turned and without waiting for her to catch up to me I started across the street. "Finally. Let's go." The sharp tone of my voice seemed to bounce of the frigid cement surfaces around me.

"Wait."

I stopped in my tracks at the sound of the deep male voice and turned around. Eric was just a few strides behind me and quickly closed the gap between us. Usually the sight of him made my heart jump, but at the moment I felt the fatigue of embarrassment piled on top of even more embarrassment. It was hard to force myself to look at him and I glanced back to the door of the club, praying that Amelia would swing through it at any second and save me from further humiliation.

When I looked back at Eric I noticed he'd left the club without his coat. He shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched against the cold.

"I wanted to catch you before you left."

I raked my top lip with my bottom teeth and pulled my coat around me a little closer. I still didn't say anything.

"You were really good. I hope you'll get up again sometime."

A breath of barely disguised exasperation at the idea forced its way through my teeth and again I looked back at the door for Amelia.

"So…" The one-sided nature of this conversation seemed to finally make him uncomfortable. I looked at him questioningly.

"Yes?"

"Any chance you'd want to have dinner sometime this week?"

It took me a moment to process what he was asking and I must have given him a surprised look.

"If you'd rather get a drink or coffee that's fine too," he tacked on after seeing the expression on my face.

His question shocked me back to my old self, and my heart rate picked up.

"Uh, yes. Dinner this week would be great."

A smile of relief cracked his face. "Good." He rubbed his hands together in an attempt to keep the blood circulating. "I'll call you?"

I smiled back and nodded then dug a scrap of paper and pen from the depths of my purse and scrawled my cell number out. The cold impaired my handwriting and it looked more like the scribblings of a third grader.

"You better go, you must be freezing."

"I am," he laughed and blew into his cupped hands, "I thought I'd miss you if I stopped to get my coat."

The door opened again but again it wasn't Amelia. An older couple I'd noticed in the audience stepped out hand in hand and crossed the street, passing us along the way.

"Excuse me," the woman said politely and pulled the gentleman I presumed to be her husband to a stop beside her. "Thank you both for that wonderful song; it meant so much to hear it tonight."

Eric and I must have shared a look of confusion. "I should explain. We live next door to Lafayette and this is our anniversary." Her husband wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "We've always considered _You Do Something To Me_ to be our song."

I smiled at them politely and blushed despite the freezing temperatures, realizing just how incorrectly I'd interpreted Lafayette's words and his choice of song. I felt incredibly foolish.

"Happy anniversary," Eric responded heartily with a quick smile.

My stammered response was a bit delayed. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. Have a nice night." I smiled genuinely and watched them walk down the street to their car then turned back to Eric.

He grinned and spoke through the cloud of his exhaled breath, "And here I thought Lafayette was trying to send _me_ a message with that song choice."

I laughed and covered my eyes with one hand shaking my head from side to side, then pushed back the hair back from my forehead and met his eyes.

"Me too," I managed to get out.

The door swung open and Amelia spilled out thoroughly bundled up. She squealed at the shock of cold and ran to me, hooking her elbow through mine.

"Let's go, let's go, let's go," she shivered.

"I'll give you a call tomorrow," Eric gave me one more heart-stopping grin then loped across the street back into the club.

Once we were in the car and had stopped shivering enough to be capable of speech Amelia began to chatter excitedly. "Soooo? Do you have a date?"

"Maybe," I said in a coy tone, but I couldn't suppress the smile on my face.

"Woohoo!" I winced at the volume of Amelia's enthusiasm. "Sookie's got a date with the ace of bass."

"Amelia."

"The tower of power."

"Amelia."

"The man with a…"

"Enough!"

Amelia broke into giggles and I couldn't help but laugh too.

"Seriously. That was cool tonight."

"Wasn't it?"

"But that magic you feel?" Amelia prodded.

"Yes?"

"It ain't the music."

I thought about Eric and grinned, keeping my eyes trained on the road. Maybe she was right.


End file.
